Last weekend I took a big step forward.
I finally tackled the boxes and boxes of baby clothes in my garage. I sorted into piles of "sentimental things to keep", “designer clothes" to give to a few friends, and the rest for donation to charity.
I pulled out memory after memory of the first 2 years in Little T’s life – presents from friends and family, items made with loving care (including some beautiful things his grandmother knitted) and bits and pieces that brought back so many moments in time. I found the little name bracelet that somehow fit on his tiny wrist in hospital, the clip that went on his belly button moments after the cord was cut, board shorts in size 000 from his first swim in the sea, my maternity clothes and nursing bras and the breast pump and bottles I sat attached to for hours trying so hard to make enough to feed him.
My mind raced back: those first 5 days in hospital, everything so new, exciting and terrifying. The struggle of being at home for 10 months. That feeling of tiny fingers wrapping around yours as tiny lips suck fiercely on a boob. That new baby smell. Kisses on a soft belly that leave you both smiling.
I sifted through baby clothes worn on holidays and remembered how badly I wanted our family to work but knew things were getting away from us.
There were blankets and sleeping bags, a jolly jumper I’d forgotten I had, rattles and soft toys, cute little mittens and booties reminding me how tiny he once was.
I was doing so well with my sorting until of all things, I pulled out a little yellow chicken toy that had been his favorite and I found myself fighting back tears.
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| {The offending Chicken toy} |
Giving away these items signified my conceding that for me I will not be having another baby. It is what it is. Not my original plan by any means but in many ways my own choice.
A side effect of my circumstances. The life I have chosen now.
It hurts like hell.
